Anne watched as they disappeared over the rise. She probably shouldn’t be out here alone with Lord Winstead, but it was difficult to muster an objection. It was the middle of the day, and they were out of doors, and more to the point, she’d had so much fun that afternoon that she didn’t think she could muster an objection to anything just then.
She had a smile on her face, and she was quite happy to keep it there.
“I would think you could remove your sash,” Lord Winstead suggested. “No one needs to be evil all the time.”
Anne laughed, her fingers sliding along the length of black ribbon. “I don’t know. I find I’m rather enjoying being evil.”
“As well you should. I must confess, I’m rather jealous of your evildoings. Poor Lord Finstead, or whatever his name turns out to be, could use a bit more malevolence. He’s a rather hapless fellow.”
“Ah, but he wins the princess in the end,” Anne reminded him, “and the evil queen must live the rest of her life in an attic.”
“Which begs the question,” he said, turning toward her with furrowed brow. “Why is Lord Finstead’s tale sad? The strange bit is abundantly clear, but if the evil queen ends up in the attic—”
“It’s his attic,” Anne interrupted.
“Oh.” He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Well, that changes everything.”
And then they did laugh. The both of them. Together.
Again.
“Oh, I’m hungry, too,” Anne said, once her mirth had melted down to a smile. “I hope the girls don’t take too long.”
And then she felt Lord Winstead’s hand take hers. “I hope they take long enough,” he murmured. He tugged her to him, and she let him, far too happy in the moment to remember all the ways he would surely break her heart.
“I told you I would kiss you again,” he whispered.
“You told me you would try.”
His lips touched hers. “I knew I would succeed.”
He kissed her again, and she pulled away, but only an inch or so. “You’re rather sure of yourself.”
“Mmm-hmm.” His lips found the corner of her mouth, then floated softly along her skin until she couldn’t help herself and her head fell back to allow him access to the curve of her neck.
Her pelisse slipped away, baring more of her skin to the cool afternoon air, and he kissed her, right along the edge of her bodice, before coming back to her mouth. “Dear God, I want you so much,” he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp. He held her more tightly, both of his hands cupping her bottom and pulling her forward . . . up . . . until she was seized by a mad urge to wrap her legs around him. It was what he wanted, and God help her, it was what she wanted, too.
Thank heavens for her skirt, which was possibly the only thing stopping her from behaving with utter shamelessness. But still, when one of his hands reached into her bodice, she didn’t refuse. And when his palm gently grazed her nipple, all she did was moan.
This would have to stop. But not just yet.
“I dreamed about you last night,” he whispered against her skin. “Do you want to know what it was?”
She shook her head, even though she did, desperately. But she knew her limits. She could go down this road only so far. If she heard his dreams, heard the words from his lips as they rained down softly against her, she would want it, everything he said.
And it hurt too much to want something she could never have.
“What did you dream about?” he asked.
“I don’t dream,” she replied.
He went still, then drew back so that he could look at her. His eyes—that amazingly bright light blue—were filled with curiosity. And maybe a touch of sadness.
“I don’t dream,” she said again. “I haven’t for years.” She said it with a shrug. It was such a normal thing for her now; it hadn’t occurred to her until that moment how strange it might seem to others.
“But you did as a child?” he asked.
She nodded. She hadn’t really thought about it before, or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to think about it. But if she had dreamed since she left Northumberland eight years earlier, she had not remembered. Every morning before she opened her eyes, there was nothing but the black of the night. A perfectly empty space, filled with absolute emptiness. No hopes. No dreams.
But also no nightmares.
It seemed a small price to pay. She wasted enough of her waking hours worrying about George Chervil and his mad quest for revenge.